There are but few days in our lives which
are not forgotten as soon as passed. The fête
days in the calendar of our existence are few
and far apart. Yet, sometimes, we come to a
day which never passes from our memory till
we die. Everything we thought and did upon
that day comes back to us afterwards, when
the eye is filmed with thought, and all the
present is forgotten for awhile. This Sunday
will live for ever in my memory, one of the
foremost of such happy days. We rose early,
and went out of Paris by the Barrière de
l'Etoile. It was a still, cool autumn morning.
The mist that lingered still when we set out,
had wholly passed away, and left a heavy dew
upon the leaves, and laid the dust upon the
roads. We turned off from the highway after
awhile, and took a footpath across the meadow
till we came to a deep valley, and stood still
to look around us for a time. Behind us we
saw the towers and triumphal arches of
Paris—the white houses of the outskirts
sprinkled, far and wide, among the trees. But
below it was a quiet landscape. One side of
the valley was ploughed up to the borders of
a wood. In the hollow stood the old church
where we were going, ivy-covered, with a
square tower. Behind flowed the Seine, and,
farther still, the forest, called the Bois de
Boulogne, piled up into the sky its masses of
innumerable tints. We descended and entered
the church. We were late, for we had
lingered long to look upon that scene. My friend
touched the incense-brush, which was
presented to her at the door, but I did not.
There was chaunting as we entered; but
presently the curé mounted the pulpit and
began to preach. He was a fine tall old man.
His hair was grey, but he was not bald. His
face was benign and placid, though, at times,
it wore a somewhat careworn expression, and
his forehead was planted deep with wrinkles.
I listened with delight to his discourse, which
seemed to harmonise with the mood wrought
in my mind by the calm autumnal day, and
the sight of that still country; for he preached
not of dogmas, or of articles of faith, but of
charity and love to all mankind.

We waited for him in the churchyard, and
when the whole of the congregation had left
the church, and the footpaths were dotted
with them in their neat attire, the curé issued
from the door, and the sexton fastened the
great bolts behind him. Aimée ran to meet
him, and he kissed her on the forehead, and
turning towards me, said, " So you have found
a new friend."

"No, Monsieur," said I, taking off my
hat with a feeling of reverence, " say, rather,
that / have found a new friend; for to her
I owe my life and peace of mind, and as yet
I have not found occasion to make her a
return."

She looked confused; but the curé patted
her on the head, and begged me to walk
beside him and tell him how this was. He
walked between us in his silken gown, tied
with a girdle at the waist, and with his head
uncovered, while I related to him all my
story. She hung down her head, but the old
man raised it up, and kissed her on the forehead
once again. And he begged us to come
home and dine with him with so much earnestness
that we complied. I half-guessed his
reason. He had eyed me at first with the
anxiety with which a father scrutinises the
lover of his child, and he wished to have me
longer with him that he might judge me
better. We talked together all the afternoon,
but Aimée sat in silence, listening to our
words. The discourse of the old man was
full of deep and practical philosophy. It was
the language of a man who had grown weary
in seeking, in the eternal ebb and flow of
history, the tendency of life, and had fallen
back upon the present, and a good and holy
life, as the only certain things which man can
hold. In the evening he accompanied us back
to the church, where we left him, and took
our way homewards. We looked back again
from the hill top, and saw the sun about to
sink into the forest, and a level shaft of light
shot across all that golden sea of leaves. It
was dusk when we returned. A few days
afterwards she received a letter from the old
man, as she was accustomed to do at certain
intervals. He spoke favourably of me amongst
other things, but cautioned her to avoid,
not only evil, but the appearance of evil,
that so she might escape the scandal of the
world.

The church was too far for her to visit
regularly. But after she had been to mass,
we went together every Sunday to St. Cloud
or Asnières, or some other village in the
environs. The fine weather lingered still. The
trees under our window were nearly bare,
and the vine against the house had begun to
shed its stalks: but in the country the trees
were still thick with leaves, for there had
been no wind. The mornings became more
misty, but at midday the sun was warm. It
seemed the winter never would come— such
a golden calm had fallen on the earth; till
one morning, while we talked still of country
rambles, I looked out of my window and saw
the snow-flakes falling in the street. Then
came the winter nights, and how to pass
them? We could sip no longer our coffee on
the Boulevards, sitting at the little green
table under the trees. Sometimes, we played
at chess, which I had taught her; and twice
we went to the theatre together. But this
was not enough. One day I asked her if she
would like to learn English, and she said
"Yes," and promised to take pains to learn.
I bought a little grammar, and began. The
curé had taught her well the principles
of grammar, so that she quickly
comprehended the rules. She applied herself
with unwearying industry; —even while she
worked, she had her grammar open before
her, conning the rules, and learning them by
heart; and at night I read with her, and